


Mugshots

by Tarot (oldsneakers)



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:18:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldsneakers/pseuds/Tarot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snap(mug)shots of me and shankt's Saints Row bosses, Irma and Ruben, because I love them muy much. Contains spoilers for SRI-III, Google Translate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mugshots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After losing Carlos, Irma hunts down the Brotherhood one by one. Rose’s just a kid. He really should’ve taken the summer job at Freckle Bitch's.

"Wanna fuck?!"

Two years, Rosé lamented against the remaining Brother's hysterics, hadn't much improved Irma's English. She frowned, rocked one knee into her runny-nosed captive's spine to interrupt his laughter, and looked over her shoulder. "No?"

He sighed, grave as one could be in black comedy. "No."

"Ah," she replied, matching his mood without a trace of irony.

Two years ago, he'd volunteered to tutor Hispanic migrants as a sort of career-shadowing experiment. He hadn't suspected free pizza at nine in Irma's neat but ratty little apartment. In retrospect, he should have. The night Ruben-fucking-Davenport stumbled in, smelling of Stilwater's so-called "water" and bleeding, bleeding _everywhere_ \--

"Yeah, me and my dick's ready for you, bitch. You and your fucking faggot boss--"

_Crack!_

His nose gave like an old apple. Irma reeled him in by his hair to repeat the motion, and Rosé realized how red the road was.

" _¿Sabes_ ," she paused to ask, " _la diferencia de mi gun y mi pistola?_ "

He coughed, uncomprehending until Rosé began, at Irma's impatient gesturing, to translate. ( _"Do you know the difference between my gun and my pistol?_ ")

"'What're you--"

" _Es nada_ ," she interrupted. "Nothing. _¿Tú comprendes?_ Eh?" He began to whimper when she held his head fast with one hand, and pushed his mouth over the head of her pistol with the other.

" _¿Estás listo para mortar, cabrón?_ "

She shot him. "Fucking imbecile. He would like Ruben’s better. _¡Qué lástima!_ " Brushed gory bits from her caramel-colored suit, stood, and shrugged at the expression Rosé wore like egg on his face. "Pizza?"


End file.
